I spent way too much of my life trying to get people to like me. I would have changed anything to be the guy that people wanted me to be. I hated my nose because it was too big and broken. I hated my height because it was too short and broken. I hated my clothes because they weren't designer and expensive.
I wanted to be what people wanted me to be for the first half of my life. As such, I lived a terrified, nervous and sheltered adolescence.
In 7th grade, a popular guy I looked up to, gave me some unsolicited fashion advice. Popularity in 7th grade is so fleeting. If you fart, puke, fall or cry in middle school, that becomes your badge, your scarlet letter, your identity. Even the 1% in middle school is subject to social exile given tragic circumstances.
I remember it like it was yesterday. We were between classes after lunch and I was probably rocking my favorite (and only) Hypercolor tee and some MC Hammer pants from JC Penney.
By rocking, of course, I mean wearing.
By wearing, I mean trying to fit somewhere.
In this instance, I was trying to fit between the one hit wonder clothing fad and the one hit wonder hip hop artist. I fit there quite nicely.
I remember said popular guy being an athletic, well-dressed dude with a cross-breed of false modesty and arrogance. He had a slight lisp or speech impediment which kept him from being an alpha but he was alpha enough to give my clueless ass an unexpected sartorial schooling. And that's what he did. I remember admiring and hating him at the same time as he listed the brands of jeans I should be buying to replace my parachute pants collection. Girbaud. Cavaricci. (He had a tough time saying Cavaricci which secretly amused me) Guess. It slowly began to dawn on me that popular guy's mom didn't dress him. Nope, he had wardrobe sovereignty and the money to run with that sovereignty. I didn't.
Acquiring the clothes necessary to escape my prepubescent ineptitude was going to take some doing.
Money was always tight in my house unless it came to alcohol. There always seemed to be budget enough for beer. I knew that asking my mom to buy me anything legit was a lost cause.
Mom would always use gifts as a way to get back later. She gave to get. She was like the mob. She was the momster. I couldn't even imagine what I'd have to do to get designer jeans.
Despite the hopelessness of the situation, I gave it my all. At 13 giving it my all meant crying. Heck, at 33 giving it my all means crying. This is what happens when you're raised by women. That, and well coiffed bikini lines. See me in July.
I cried. I am a loser. I'm not popular. I need Guess jeans. People don't like me. Guess jeans will make people like me. Claudia Schiffer will like me. All of my problems will be solved by a pair of overpriced denim!!! Once these Guess jeans are on, no one will notice my retainer, my big nose, my distance from puberty, my squeaky voice or my own hand prints on my Hypercolor shirt.
BUY ME GUESS JEANS!
Mom didn't budge. But my message sunk in somehow. It sunk in enough that word of my crisis got through to my family. I didn't realize my impact until Easter. My aunt Eileen played Easter Bunny better than the rabbit himself. Jesus resurrected in the form of a pair of Guess jeans. Eileen had felt my plight and decided to make things right with me and my ego. I couldn't have been happier. I wore those fuckers for probably a week and a half. I think I slept in them. Man, did my Hypercolor shirt pop with those jeans on! My problems were solved!!!
I was walking tall. I didn't have an overbite anymore. I was the toughest 92 pound kid in the world. I could move mountains. I was on a fast climb to popularity. Until.
Lunchtime. Mid April. Full cafeteria. Me. My Guess Jeans. My lunch. My pride.
All present.
I proudly marched my lunch to my table and took a moment or two extra to sit just to make sure people knew I was wearing Guess Jeans. Oh they knew. And, unbeknownst to DJB, they had known for a week. It was on this day, the alpha popular girl - did me a huge favor. She approached me at my lunch table and I remember being confused and excited at the same time. She had some other popular girls in tow. This was when it was all gonna happen. I was becoming the man.
"I see you're wearing Guess Jeans." she said.
In my head, I was shocked that this one pair of jeans was really actually bringing me to the upper echelon of 7th grade but I refused to question it because this kind of face time with a terrifyingly gorgeous 'in' girl was more than enough to veil any sort of reality.
"Can I see them?"
Um. Yes. I stood up proudly and modeled confidently.
"Do you see how the writing in the logo triangle is red on your jeans?"
Yes. I said smiling proudly.
"Look at our jeans. It's the same. Red writing" Several popular girls then showed me the Guess triangle logo on their rear ends. This was amazing. They wear Guess Jeans. I wear Guess Jeans. I'M IN!
"Now, look at their jeans." The girls summoned a few football players from a nearby table.
"The logo has green writing. Guys Guess Jeans have green writing in the logo."
GULP. HUMILIATION. HOW COULD IT BE? I HAD BEEN WEARING GIRLS GUESS JEANS FOR ALMOST TWO WEEKS ONLY TO BE CALLED OUT BY THE POPULAR KIDS AT LUNCH. FUCK!
Needless to say, my face went to Hypercolor and I 'gave it my all' for a while.
Eileen had bought the jeans at Marshalls and they were in the wrong section. They fit like a glove. I bet they'd still fit. A one fit wonder.
I didn't live that down for a few years. I began to live it down when I stopped caring what I wore and who liked me and why. I began to live it down when I started to like me. I don't know when that was but I can guess.
